"Have the 'made in Germany' mark on your machine and I believe you can establish the record," laughed Roque.
"Not on your life," exclaimed Billy. "We are going to build the crossing craft ourselves."
The No. 3's were lying idle behind the lines. Roque had ceased overground work for the time being, and like a mole was engaged in some undermining scheme, of which the boys had no inkling.
Resorting to his remarkable aptitude as a lightning change artist, and also applying the magic touch to Schneider, the pair of them were scarcely recognizable to even the lads with whom they had been so long and so closely associated.
The secret agent and his trusty lieutenant were masquerading as natives of Russian Poland, and it may be told that their desperate mission was to enter Warsaw, where the slightest indiscretion or betrayal would put them in graves alongside of that daring spy of Roque's who failed to conceal his identity.
It was the midnight hour when Billy was awakened by a man enveloped from neck to foot in a grayish-brown overcoat, from under the head cape of which came the voice of Roque:
"Take this" (slipping a fold of coarse paper into the hand of the drowsy lad), "and if you do not hear from me after three days, read what is written, and follow the instructions to the letter. Not a look at the message, remember, for three days; to be exact, the morning of the fourth day. You hear me?" Billy sleepily nodded his head.
Out on the turbid tide of the yellow river beyond the German trenches two shrouded figures silently launched a flatboat and drifted away in the darkness.
"What's doing?" This was Henri's morning question, preceding a swallow of coffee.